THROUGH SMOKE AND MIRRORS by Kitty Fisher
The day had been an absolute bitch. Easing the stiff muscles in his shoulders, standing in the impersonal hallway, James Bond battled with the various locks that secured his Mayfair flat. Finally, releasing the last one with a sigh compounded of tiredness and relief, he pushed it open and stepped inside.
As he eased the door closed, in a single sharp moment of awareness, he stiffened, and knew he was not alone. Between that knowing and the press of a gun–barrel against his cheek, he was allowed a millisecond for his hand to begin reaching for the Walther beneath his tailored jacket. But the movement scarcely happened, for cold metal was against his skin, hard, as if trying to push through to the bone and knowing he was taken, he stilled.
He cursed himself. Too tired and too lax. The shiver that burned in his gut never appeared. He held it in check. Every part of him was focused on waiting. And for the moment when waiting would no longer be an option.
It was very dark. Four in the morning and all he could make out were shadows. His senses tried to stretch through the fear, but all he could smell was the cordite and sweat staining his own clothes, all he could hear was his own heart and the world seemed to centre itself on the cold steel rammed under his cheekbone.
There seemed little doubt that this — whatever this turned out to be — was meant for him, but just in case: "Can I help you at all? Perhaps we could put the light on?" Bond kept his voice smooth and urbane, though his mind was flashing through a thousand possibilities. "You never know — you might have the wrong flat."
He grunted, tilting his head away as his captor pushed harder, the humour unappreciated. A hand gripped his shoulder and guided by fingers that found their way unerringly to his nerve endings he took two steps forward, then at further insistence dropped slowly, grimly to his knees.
The man, gun still held steadily to skin, stepped behind him, his hard–muscled body pressing against James Bond's back. Kneeling, wired through every nerve with the possibility of attack, Bond held still while the barrel smoothed lasciviously against his stubbled chin, rising up slowly, drawing a cold line across his cheek, pressing his head back into the other man's groin, forcing awareness of the excitement that pulsed there, hard and ready, hot even through layers of clothing.
Something in the action sent adrenalin searing through Bond's veins; adrenalin and recognition and blind lust that spiked into his blood and made him almost dizzy with a heady mix of relief and anticipation.
A laugh sounded softly through the room. Without thinking, Bond took a chance and reached back, trying for surprise to add to the distraction, clawing at ankles, trying to tumble the other man over his head.
He ended face down, crushed into the floor, head ringing where the gun had glanced almost casually against it. A knee ground its way into the small of his back, punishing until he gasped, biting off the sound as some sort of thin noose was slipped around his neck, tightened, pulled back so he arched his face roughly off the Turkestan carpet.
Then the gun was back at his face, blindly seeking. It stopped when it found his mouth, pressing there for entrance. Lightheaded, Bond tried to move away. The gun had been fired recently. He could smell cordite stronger than oil. He fought against surrendering to it. Fighting as the knee in his back held him still, muscles quivering with strain, he kept his mouth tightly closed, though his lips began to bleed where they were ground into his teeth.
The noose tightened as the weight of the man shifted against his back. Suddenly a mouth was hot against his ear, insisting. "Go on, take it."
Bond shuddered and bucked upwards, trying to dislodge the body that kept him pressed to the floor.
A quiet voice tutted, amusement treading through the effort such control cost. "Naughty."
He could see red speckles in the darkness.
"Go on, James, you know you like it."
He didn't. It was a lie. Like? He craved it.
A tongue licked slowly at the skin of his ear, replaced almost immediately by teeth that bit.
"James..." The voice was a serpent in his ear, whispering of temptation so sweet he could feel it pulsing already in his blood, aching in his cock that was grinding hungrily into the carpet. "For England, James..."
Two words that meant so much. A simple enough code, but all that was needed. Almost before Alec Trevelyan finished speaking, Bond was opening his mouth and letting steel slide inside.
It was like coming home.
Rag–boned he sagged to the floor, noose loosened, cheek to the rough wool and the gun penetrating his mouth.
The noose slackened off, though it didn't go away. "Shame I don't use a bigger calibre, 007. Perhaps I can borrow one for next time." That laugh again, the same soft laugh that sent the hairs on Bond's neck shimmering with excitement. "Would you like that?"
The metal was huge in his mouth, jutting at palate, then throat, carelessly making him gag as the trigger–guard pushed against his lips. He wondered if it was loaded. Probably. Undoubtedly with the safety slipped off. It would be unlike Alec to do anything but play for keeps.
It was a command, a command reinforced by the gun. Pulled by it, forced, Bond turned to lay on his back, breathing hard, blinking as sweat trickled into his eyes.
"There." Trevelyan was back, very close, his breath warm against Bond's face, his body heavy. "I'm so glad we share the same kinks, can't imagine what it would be like to want to do this to you, yet not be able to. Though maybe, just maybe, even if you said no, I'd still go ahead." The smooth voice was catching with excitement. "Ever been raped, James? Would it turn you on, I wonder? Make you lose that ice–cold calm? Shaken but never stirred." The laugh again. "I'd like to prove that a lie. I'd want to hear you screaming for me. Screaming as I fuck you..."
And his words blurred, his mouth closing on Bond's, his tongue forcing its way past the gun so he was kissing around it; his kiss as hard and violent as the weapon.
Bond arched, twisting so Trevelyan had to grip his dark hair to keep him still. For a while the only sounds were of their breath, unsteady and uneven around the wet kiss. Bond tasted of metal, of smoke and death. Alec pulled harder with his fingers, pressing his groin against answering heat. Either of them could have died today.
But they hadn't.
He bit down and tasted blood. As the sweetness flooded their mouths, both men hissed almost silently with pleasure.
"Christ!" Trevelyan pulled back, his voice suddenly disembodied in the dark, thick with desire. "I want you so much. Too bloody much..."
Without care he pulled the gun free, replacing it with his mouth so he could take sole possession. He thrust his tongue deep, both hands now pinioning Bond's head, holding it still while he bit and forced pleasure upon them both. When the man beneath him began to kiss back with passion he pulled away, slid the gun barrel back against a cheek–bone. He shifted his weight and when he spoke his voice was low and utterly serious. "You're mine, James. Tonight. Say the words..."
Bond shivered, fighting to the last moment. He knew he would give in, but that was a secret. One he guarded as securely as when this was reversed and it was Trevelyan fighting for breath and composure against the onslaught. He would make Alec work.
It would make him rougher. A remarkably delightful prospect.
The gun disappeared, but a hand cracked across his face.
Again. This time with the noose tightening, forcing blood and reason from Bond's head.
"Come on, James." Though Trevelyan urged the other man to give in, his voice was certain, quite sure. He pulled tighter, then let go to find Bond's wrists with faultless accuracy and pull them high above his head, his fingers digging as if to bone. "Or is this what you want tonight — rape. I could do it. Tie you, fuck you — maybe use the gun — you'd like that." He shivered as Bond arched involuntarily at the words, pushing them groin to groin. "But that would be hard and fast and I know you. Be good and I'll be slow. Be good, James. Then I'll be as slow and as bloody vicious as you want." There was a soft, almost silent laugh. "As I want."
There was suddenly no contest. Bond surrendered, offering the words that would bind him to the other man's will. Sex with Alec was like walking through mirrors. Mirrors clouded with smoke. He never knew what he would find, what he would want. What 006 would want.
007 shivered and took a deep breath, letting it out unevenly. He licked his lips and said the words: "For England, Alec..."
They kissed again, without any fight for supremacy. James opened his mouth and with pleasure singing wild in his veins let Alec possess his mouth. The kiss strayed and Alec was biting his neck, making him writhe as the roughness of beard–shadow caught against smooth skin, then back, taking his mouth in a voluptuary's kiss.
Breath shimmered like electricity between them as they broke apart.
"Time for some light, I think, James. Stay there."
Bond obeyed the command and lay still. Sometimes this was all he wanted, the moment before it would all begin. To be waiting for Trevelyan's wonderfully devious mind to take him away, to transport them both to a place where there was no remembering; no past and certainly no future. That such submission had to be fought for, only added a certain spice, a touch of danger. And only ever with Trevelyan. The same way Trevelyan was only ever yielding with him. Either way, it didn't seem to matter. It all only depended on who was there first.
And who needed it most.
He winced as a side–light glared into his eyes, wanting his pupils to adjust, needing to see, to have the blindness taken away.
The wait was worthwhile. He focused on the man standing over him; Trevelyan was dressed in the same black night–combat clothes he had worn for their mission. Bond, set up on the inside of the embassy, had worn expensive tailoring, though now both sets of clothes were equally disreputable. Pinned to the floor by a sharp gaze, by the still moment of submissive awareness, he allowed time to admire what he saw. There was something about Trevelyan's body encased in torn and ripped clothing that made Bond catch his breath. Perhaps at the simple reminder of danger passed and gone. Perhaps because he looked far more dangerous like this, with his blond hair dishevelled, darkened with sweat, his fine features — all bones and pale, bruised skin — showing no emotion, no pity. Whatever, lithe and light, his masculinity entirely evident, he was the darkest fantasy made flesh.
Bond took a deep breath and hoped Alec would keep his word, that this would last. Two weeks he'd been undercover. The tension still twisted in his nerves and his gut. He wanted this. Needed it. And Alec was simply the best.
He winced slightly as Trevelyan walked away, almost moved, then remembered and relaxed, letting himself luxuriate in the rare abandonment of being commanded.
Quite still he waited as Trevelyan paced through the flat, turning on subdued lighting. He disappeared into the bedroom for a while, then came back, the gun still in his hand. He came to stand over Bond, one foot either side of his body.
James looked up, seeing the dark and the light, the killer who could — if he wanted — make love with all the sweetness of an angel. There were nights when that was all they both required. The soft touch, the warm murmur of gentle passion. But not often. Perhaps one time between every ten girls. Sometimes they even shared that gentleness with one of the women, two of them making love to and around the soft scented curves. But not often.
And certainly not tonight.
Trevelyan grinned as if reading his mind. The smile wicked as sin and just as enticing. "What shall I do with you tonight, James? How do you want it?" He crouched down, the curve of his arse tantalising against the bulging erection that tented Bond's trousers away from his crotch. He swayed slightly, smiling again as, stretched on the floor, Bond closed his eyes and lifted his hips in a search of more insistent pressure. He moved slightly and pressed the gun to where Bond's erection fought for attention, letting the hard metal prove supremacy until a soft sound was forced through Bond's bleeding lips. "Patience."
Knowing Bond as he knew no other person, having the years of childhood friendship as well as their working life to give intimacy, Trevelyan could see beyond the cool, beautiful features, the austere perfection, to the gaping need that sat like an abyss at the depths of Bond's soul. Not that there was anything to show it. The man lay on the floor, still, expressionless, waiting. The only signs of excitement a slightly disordered breathing, and the cock that pressed so intimately through their clothing to beg at Trevelyan's arse.
And with a lithe twist Trevelyan was gone, walking away. "Come on, James, get your clothes off. We won't get far like that."
Slowly, Bond climbed off the floor and began to slide the knot of his tie free. Something brushed against his fingers; the noose still hanging from around his neck — a slim silk rope. He fingered it, but left it in place, before following his lover into the bedroom, stripping as he went.
ST PETERSBURG: 1995
Bond came round from the stun swiftly, cleanly enough to wonder immediately how he could have been such a fool. But seeing Trevelyan, knowing he was alive, had been such a shock.
Too much so. He pushed introspection away and opened his eyes, raising his head to stare straight into amused blue eyes.
"Hello again, James."
"Alec. I thought you were going to kill me." Pain pulsed at the base of Bond's skull and he narrowed his eyes.
"I am. But the small artistic touch I want to add to your death isn't quite ready yet." He frowned in mock sympathy. "Head hurt? Don't worry, I promise it won't be for long."
"You are so reassuring. Somehow I doubt if you mean to offer me an aspirin." He was also very cold. It took him a moment to realise he was naked. Bond tried the ropes that bound him upright, hands tied above his head to the forearm of what must once have been a colossal statue of Lenin, but they held fast. He'd expected nothing else. Not of Alec. They were inside, a kerosene lamp lighting the storage room full of more remnants of seventy years of communism. There were only the two of them. Two men and a dozen broken statues. His eyes travelled around, found no way out, then settled back on the ravaged features. "Are you?"
Trevelyan smiled, the ugly, badly executed skin–graft over cruel burn twisting obscenely. "No. I thought I'd offer you a far more...how shall I put it, reminiscent way of deadening the pain." He took a step closer and stared intently into his captive's face. "A kiss before dying?"
"No thank you."
Bond shook his head. Disgusted that the words from that mouth still had any power over him. "No. Thanks all the same, but I think I'd rather you just killed me."
Trevelyan laughed. "You know, I could almost believe you. Except that I understand you too well." He placed his hand on the handsome face, seeing the almost disguised disgust. "You'd do anything to live. And now that you know I'm a traitor, you'd do anything to live in order to kill me." His hand stilled, fingers close to Bond's eye. "Am I right?"
"As always, Alec." He shifted slightly in his ropes. "As always."
"James, relax, I'm not going to hurt you. Though," he paused as if considering, "I do remember how you used to fantasise about rape, how we used to play at it. I'm sure you do remember, too. I could show you what it really is like. It would be like a first time — or have you finally had to suffer even that indignity for Queen and country?"
Almost with regret, Bond spoke the truth, "No."
"Lucky you. I don't suppose you'd like it. Not the reality of it. Remember when the Tong had us, and they used me to get to you. You never broke, did you? Not even when they fucked me one after the other. I lost count after a while, got to eight and gave up. Did you keep tally, a final score?"
Bond shook his head, the despair and disgust and horror he had lived through on that night so long ago sweeping vividly through his thoughts, the memory one that visited his nightmares far more often than he would have liked. He took a deep breath and fought the urge to either cringe or apologise. "No, I didn't. I couldn't help you Alec, you understood that then."
"Did I?" Trevelyan shook his head, not in disbelief, more in curiosity. "You know, James, sometimes I can hardly recall who I was before this." His long, elegant fingers moved from Bond's face to smooth over his own. "I remember that night though. I remember wanting to die, and you, ice–cool in that silk tux, not a hair out of place, urbane and detached, utterly indifferent, not giving a damn."
"I gave more than that."
"Really? I was never sure. Never. The same way I was never sure if you'd be glad about his." He turned his face so the scars caught the light.
The ugliness, the obvious path of pain, the contrast between this and what he had been enough to gouge a pit in Bond's gut. "No."
"I'm not. I might wish that you'd died. I would never have wished that sort of pain on you."
"Such a gentleman!" Trevelyan's lips twisted. "Such truth!"
"I thought it was what you wanted."
"You can't conceive what I want. You're too straight, too damn British!"
"It's what I am. What you are."
"Was, James." Trevelyan shook his head slowly. "What I was." He took a couple of steps away, the dark blond of his hair caught with gold in the stark artificial light, the dense black of his clothing reflecting no light at all. "You know, for all that, I believe I will be sorry to kill you. It's such a shame."
"Then don't do it."
"Don't be an idiot! I'm hardly going to leave you alive, am I?" He turned back and shrugged off the leather coat, letting it fall haphazardly to the floor. "You betrayed me, James. Oh, I know! I betrayed my country first. But you betrayed me. That deserves a little settling of scores, don't you think?" He was unbuttoning his trousers, walking out of Bond's circle of vision to behind where he hung. "I've been thinking about it, and this really is the only way I know to get revenge. Just think yourself lucky that it'll only be me, I could have given you to Zenia."
Bond felt the snub head of Trevelyan's cock butting against the cleft of his buttocks and he tried to twist away.
"Keep still, James!" The precise voice sounded truly amused. An amusement undercut by excitement and the heat of arousal. "You don't want to make me really hurt you."
A gun at his temple held him still. "Silence!"
Breath was warm on the back of Bond's neck, setting fine hairs on end. He shivered and cursed himself.
"Have you been keeping in practise? You always were a tight arse at the best of times."
"Alec, don't do this." Bond felt himself sweating despite the cold. "What's the point?"
"Don't be obtuse."
"But you're going to kill me!"
"And I'm going to hurt you first. Now let's hope I can summon enough spit, or this could be nasty for both of us."
By the time he stepped into the bedroom, Alec was naked, half–turned, the cant of his slim body unwittingly drawing attention to a bruise that was beginning to curve around his shoulder. Bond tried to recall when it could have happened, but couldn't. The end of the mission had been so fast and ugly that there had been no time for anything but reacting to the moment, for surviving. They saved each others lives by instinct as much as design.
Alec was standing by an antique chest of drawers opening a fresh packet of lubricant. He turned his head and gave a wolf's smile as Bond entered the room, his eyes approving as the Turnbull and Asser shirt was pulled loose, then tossed to the floor. "Wait!"
Hands at the waistband of his trousers, Bond paused, looking up inquiringly, one eyebrow slightly raised.
Alec was at his side. "I'm just looking." He smoothed a hand down James' naked chest, feeling the sparse, silky hair ripple under his palm, the dark nipple rise as his gun–calloused skin slid over it. The half–closed, smoky blue eyes clouded, scarcely meeting his own, not even when he gave the dangling end of the noose a gentle tug. He walked around and repeated the movement down the long back, feeling the bone and corded muscle close beneath pale skin. A weird serendipity allowed this. Fate, perhaps. Lust, certainly, that drew them together despite any amount of other sexual partners.
Bending, he placed a kiss on the bony line of one shoulder, licking the salt skin with a shiver of anticipation before whispering against warmth, "Kneel down."
He paced around again, his cock filling, rising to jut into the air as Bond obeyed without question.
He took a step forward and pushed his groin into the tilted face, knotting his fingers through the dark hair, pulling the waiting mouth onto his cock. He groaned softly as an agile tongue slid around his glans and made him welcome. A welcome that was immaterial, as he was already fucking the open mouth, pressing his cock–head towards the tight throat, whispering soft obscenities to the shadowed air as he went as deep as he could, his tight balls ramming against Bond's chin. He held there, pushed deep, for a breath, another, more. Until he could feel panic twist the kneeling man away from him. Then he took hold of the noose and held him still, ignoring the fingers that clawed at his thighs. Trevelyan held Bond tied to his own flesh, tied with his cock so deep in his throat that there was no breath but that which he allowed, no life but that which he deigned to give.
He held the moment. Longer. Then just as knew one more second and he wouldn't be able to stop from coming he pulled away, loosened the noose and let the other man fall to all fours, watching as he retched for breath, dark hair spilling haphazardly over his face.
Trevelyan gave him only thirty seconds.
"Back on you knees!"
Trevelyan's voice was unsteady, but he had control. With a shudder that racked through his muscles, Bond dragged himself upright. He knelt, breath coming hard, ragged, his eyes unfocused. His mouth was glistening, swollen. Alec bent and kissed it. Soft and gentle, taking the groan it elicited into himself and swallowing it with the tastes of semen and sweat, rich with a dark undercurrent of blood. Before it could all become too much, he backed away.
"I've got a surprise for you. A gift." Alec saw the sudden wariness. "Get on the bed. And finish getting your clothes off."
Bond, all long limbs and balanced grace obeyed, settling himself in the centre of the bed quite naked. The kiss had restored his equilibrium. The gift was more than likely to strip it away again. He licked his lips and held quite still as Alec knelt next to him, the bed shifting under his weight.
"I picked it up from Asprey's last week." He held a dark red box in his hands, a box about six inches long and narrow. "I'm still not sure if they knew what they were making." He licked his lips, the glimpse of pink tongue making Bond's heavy arousal jerk in uncontrollable response. "I told them it was a special cocktail stirrer. I wonder if they knew why I was laughing." He opened the box and with his long fingers drew out a silver spike. It was about three inches long, thin, spiralled like a piece of barley–sugar. One end was finished with a gold sphere, the other tapered to something approaching a point.
James sucked in his breath, his eyes fixed on the fine craftsmanship, his mind screaming ahead, knowing without any doubt what Alec intended to do with it.
"A cocktail stirrer?"
"Mmm. I thought that might amuse you."
"Yes..." He reached out to touch, but it was snatched away.
"Naughty! Not yet, James. I'm saving it for last. I just thought you might like a look at it, start anticipating it."
"Thank you." Bond shivered as the cold silver traced a pattern over his chest.
"I've been thinking about it for weeks. Wanting to see what you look like with it buried up to the hilt in your cock." He ran the tip down to Bond's groin, letting it press between his balls before rising up to tease at the dark slit in his glans. Immediately clear silver, viscous liquid spilled against it and he pulled it away, folding it into his hand with a flourish. "But not yet." He smiled, his own sexual heat taking anything but desire from his eyes. "Turn over. And be patient, or I won't beat you first.”
PUERTO RICO: 1995
Moonlight danced softly on the gently moving waves, warmth enfolded him like balm as the light breeze plucked lazily at the thin cotton of his shirt. There was nothing here on this paradise beach but peace. At least peace was all there should have been here. In the luxury beach–hut a way down the shore line, Natalya slept. Sleep. A luxury a thousand miles from anywhere Bond could go. Despite having made love, despite being tired beyond imagining, his thoughts refused to let him rest. There was no peace in his mind. He wondered if there ever would be.
For Alec Trevelyan lived.
And tomorrow one of them would die.
Perhaps that was why he sat awake, as if refusing to sleep would deny any possibility of another dawn.
Sitting on the warm sand, James Bond stared morosely at the waves frothing in eddies on the sand and wondered how this had all happened. When had Alec changed, become capable of betraying the country they had both come close to dying for on more than one occasion.
To have known a man all your life and yet never have known him at all. Trusted him beyond reason and never known that trust was founded on nothing but air.
Alec had been worthy of that trust. He had saved Bond's life, killed for him, taken bullets and worse, been tortured and not broken even when a word would have ended it, though that word would have spelled Bond's death.
When had it changed? Why?
Bond curled his arms around his knees and stared up at the night in anguish, refusing to let himself howl like a dog.
Two years older, he had watched the younger man through school. Both orphans, they had shared holidays in the school together, share everything together. University, then counter–intelligence then...
Bond shifted on the sand, suddenly almost chilled despite the night's warmth. He could feel where Alec had penetrated his body. It was still beyond him to think he had been raped. If rape it was. There had been pain and no pleasure. Trevelyan had completed the act in eerie silence, not even bothering to add verbal humiliation to the physical. Bond had held still, forced as much relaxation into his muscles as he could and let himself be taken. After all, it was nothing Alec hadn't done before, though as there had been no one since his death, the act had been of necessity contained a certain brutality.
The bitterness had come later.
At the time, perhaps the worst part of all though had been dressing afterwards. Standing to pull on the trappings of civilization whilst Trevelyan watched, leaning against the wall his expression hooded by shadow. That had been more humiliating by far than what had gone before, making him careful to dress with care, trying for insouciance, for elegance, smoothing his tie with fingers he wouldn't let tremble.
But the act had been different. As if neither of them had really believed it something as emotive as rape.
Alone in the wide night, Bond grimaced. Perhaps he had not been alone in remembering far too much.
Slowly, he stood up and brushed the sand from his white linen trousers. He needed to find some rest, if he was to succeed in killing Trevelyan.
So many betrayals. And now nothing was left but the simple battle between the two of them. For whatever happened now was personal.
Bond walked to the water's edge and let the warm waves lap against his feet, sighing softly as the water trickled between his long toes. He stared down at the patterns the surf made, as the moonlight was trapped then released by the hundreds, thousands of tiny bubbles. Yet he saw more than the night sky reflected in the sea. There was the ribbon of history that bound him to this place in time. Perhaps there was nowhere else he could be, could ever have been.
He took a deep breath and tilted his head back. That he could still feel Alec's hands on his body did nothing to ease his mind. But there was no room here for hate. Trevelyan had enough of that for both of them.
Alec had always insisted that hate was like love. Well, if that was true, for which of them would he begin tomorrow's hunt? Which would Alec?
Somehow that wasn't a question he wanted to answer.
Bond was roped by the wrists to the brass rail that footed his own wide bed, bent at the waist, sweat dripping from his nose to disappear into the thick carpet, he controlled his breathing by will alone. By will and a need to hear what was happening. He knew Trevelyan was there, but for the last few minutes there had been absolute silence.
Anticipation laced with apprehension swirled headily through his blood. Endorphin and adrenalin kept him balanced on a fine edge of need, sensitizing every particle of his skin. It felt that all Trevelyan needed to do was breath on him and he'd come.
He flinched when a hand slapped against his flank, setting the marks inflicted by the cane dancing with pain. Another moment with no contact, then something cold was being spread into the cleft of his arse, pressed deep into this body until he wanted to writhe shamelessly against the intrusion. He hissed breath in between clenched teeth, bit back on the moan. But as quickly as the hand had begun its work, it was gone.
Then suddenly his wrists were free.
Slowly, as if pressing against a great weight he did so, easing his body into the new position. He blinked a trickle of sweat from his eyes.
"Lie on the bed. On your back."
It would be. Bond, controlling every impulse to fight or flee, laid himself out on the bed, feeling the towel there rough against the welts that covered his back from neck to thigh. He glanced at himself and wondered briefly at the shamelessness of it all. His cock speared upwards in reply.
Trevelyan settled between his open legs, kneeling as if about to offer fellatio. But there was a glint of silver in one hand and in the other he held the tube of lubricant. "I think you're ready."
He held the spike in the air, twisting it in the subdued light, letting Bond see its length, its girth, let him think about where it would be inserted. There had to be ways to break that cool demeanour.
"I want you to scream for me, James. Not in pain, but pleasure." He glanced obliquely from the silver in his hand to Bond's face, caught the slight shift of denial. "Think you won't?" He bent at the waist, laying his face close to the iron–hard need that pulsed in anticipation regardless of what James' mind might be telling him. "I wouldn't place any bets, if I were you..."
And he slid his mouth over the heated flesh, taking it deep into his throat, held it there and swallowed until the man on the bed arched in need. Then he took his mouth away.
Suddenly intent, almost oblivious to his lover, Trevelyan smeared gel on the silver. His eyes were narrowed, a slight furrow marring his smooth brow as he concentrated. Then with a shift of his thighs that brought them closer, he held the tip just at the smallest opening to Bond's body.
Every muscle tight with control, Bond lay still and watched. Involuntarily he licked his lips, leaving his mouth parted as the cold metal touched his flesh.
"How deep will it go?" Alec played the tip at the slit, dipping it in and out almost imperceptibly. "All the way, I think. I'm having another made, thicker and longer, so you'd better get used to this one."
He pushed, turning slightly, working it deep, letting the spiralling on the shaft pull itself into James' cock.
Half an inch, then an inch of the silver disappeared before Bond moaned. He was stretched tight with tension, every part of his body being forced to accept this violation. He shuddered as more was pushed into the narrow passage, shuddered with pain and possession and the sweetest keening pleasure. His hands knotted themselves in the covers, his head tossed against the pillows, his hair black with the same sweat that matted the fine hairs to his chest and pooled in the concave pit of his belly.
When exactly half of the metal was accepted, Trevelyan stopped. He waited for Bond's breathing to calm, waited for the tight closed eyes to open, to begin to focus. Then he pulled the long legs onto his shoulders, pressing cock to arse, then without further preparation rammed himself deep inside.
The dual penetration stripped even Bond's control. He arched so much that Alec had to fight to keep possession. Using force and his own better control, he pushed froward, doubling the other man underneath him as he began a brutal fucking. Taking pleasure solely for himself, yet inflicting as much as he stole, he found a rhythm of short hard strokes. There was no subtlety. He forced himself deep, deeper. Taking Bond's body and using it, manipulating it, hardly hearing the sounds of need and desire that threaded around them, waiting until he could feel himself poised on the precipice, so close, too close, until almost there.
Then and only then did he take Bond's cock in his hand, slowly pushing with his thumb, sending the spike deep. He took the scream that clenched the tight anal muscles around him as his final spur. He saw Bond's head thrown back in abandon, the muscles in his throat cording as he convulsed and that was all. Trevelyan cried out himself as he came, shuddering as the other man clawed at him, sobbing his name as with a final pulse he pushed deep, almost blind, almost witless.
But he remembered and searching with his fingers found the alien sphere that obscenely jutted from James' cock and slowly, very slowly he slid the spike free. The pain/pleasure was too much and Bond screamed again, control abandoned, semen spattering violently between them, mingling with the sweat that slid skin on skin, shaking them both with an intensity that echoed long after they slid boneless into sleep.
Goldeneye was destroyed, Trevelyan was dead. Another mission completed for the good of the world. Bond sat by the hotel pool and wondered at the desolation he couldn't seem to shift.
Natalya was somewhere in New York. She rang occasionally, but had been put off by the chill she had begun to hear in Bond's smooth voice. Somehow he wanted no memories of Cuba. Not yet. Not until he had sorted everything out in his own head.
The moment when he had killed Trevelyan, the moment that grasping hand had slid from his, haunted him still. There had been no choice, and yet he dreamed that brief second for hours every night. Reliving it. Changing history. The worst variation was that in which Alec didn't die, when Bond used his strength and pulled him to safety and he admitted that it had all been one great game of triple–think.
For he always awoke, and always remembered the truth.
Bond stretched in the sun, trying for relaxation. His body had healed, most of the bruises were gone. Enough anyway for him to be able to strip off in public. He fingered his Ray–Bans back up his nose and wondered how much longer M would give him. They were probably planning his next mission already. And all he wanted to do was rest.
He eyed the people around the pool. Catching the eye of a beautiful redhead in a Versace one piece swimsuit. He looked away. Maybe later. If he could summon the energy.
Further. To the other side of the turquoise water. A man was walking through the shaded colonnade that led through into the hotel.
Bond's stomach lurched as if gravity had suddenly fallen away. The man was blond, slim, moving though sunlight and shadow with an easy grace. Dressed head to toe in black, absolute confidence in every muscle, every slight turn of his head he could have been Trevelyan.
The resemblance was too strong. Too emotive. Bond lay back and closed his eyes. He couldn't look at every blond man for the rest of his life and see Trevelyan. Could he?
But that straight–backed walk...
He closed his eyes and wondered why there was a prickling behind the lids; shocked beyond belief when he realised tears were welling from his eyes.
If this was sorrow, mourning, then why did it have to be here? He cursed his lack of control and wondered if he could make it to his room. He opened blurry eyes and all he could see was the redhead smiling at him.
He turned over and buried his face in the sweaty curve of his elbow. Knowing that Trevelyan wasn't going to be coming back. Not this time. Not ever.
He lay still for a long while, unaware of the eyes that watched him intently from the shadows.
* * *